


Waiting For a Friend

by the_glow_worm



Category: POKEMON Detective Pikachu (2019)
Genre: Gen, Grief, Possession, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24621037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_glow_worm/pseuds/the_glow_worm
Summary: Tim, trying to make a life for himself in Ryme City, is pulled into a series of mysterious disappearances at an old, run-down hotel. But will this case bring Tim and his father closer together, or bring back painful memories for them both?
Relationships: Harry Goodman & Tim Goodman
Comments: 18
Kudos: 44
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	Waiting For a Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



The thing about being a bartender was that you weren't allowed to have your own problems. No one cared that Tim had flunked his psych midterm at Ryme University when they were tipping him for drunk therapy, and definitely no one cared that he _still_ hadn't found a Pokemon partner when they were grousing about their interpersonal issues with their Nidoran or whatever. Tim hadn’t even bothered to figure out what his current customer was going on about. Even the man's Toxicroak was passed out on the bar, although Tim would have really preferred otherwise; its poison skin was beginning to make the varnish bubble. Tim glanced at the clock. It was _so_ close to closing time.

“Wow, sounds tough,” he said automatically, when his customer had stopped to take a breath. 

“You have no idea. The boss was already breathing down my neck over the other delays—bad enough he owns the whole city! The permits go missing, the files disappear, a bunch of expensive tools suddenly walk off the job, and now one of my best guys no-shows! Six years working together and he just stops showing up!”

“Uh huh. I hear ya.”

“Branson was my demolitions guy, too. Well, jokes on him. I got more coming in from Sunset City. The building’s already set to collapse at the end of the week with or without that loser. Fuck him, anyway. I’ll make sure he never works in this town again.”

“Uh huh. Wait, the building’s collapsing?”

The man snorted. “You ever read the news? Yeah, the Manor’s been slated for demolition for months.”

The Manor—Tim tried to visualize his mental map of the city; the broad avenues, the street markets full of life, the Pokemon parks, the slow river that flowed from the university to the docks. “Uh…”

The man snorted again. “It’s the hotel next door.”

“Right. I knew that.”

“You’ll probably be out of work for a couple of days after the demolition while the dust settles,” he said. He gave Tim the once-over. “You got a Pokemon partner with a few more muscles than you? If so, I could use some more guys. They’ve been walking off the job left and right.”

“I have plenty of muscles,” said Tim, wounded. “What’s wrong with my muscles?”

“I’ll take that as a no.” He heaved a breath. “But I’m getting desperate. I suppose you could set up traffic cones or something. Let me give you my card.” He handed Tim a piece of paper. It was just an index card torn in half. There was a name on it:

MARTY FLEMING

Below that, a number.

“Thanks?” said Tim. “I’m good where I am, though. How come the hotel’s coming down?” He pictured the building next door in his head; he had walked past it plenty of times. Admittedly he never stopped and actually looked at it, but it seemed pretty enough, and it had the old-fashioned ornamental stonework that he associated with fanciness.

“Have you ever actually looked at it? In the light of day? It’s ancient, practically falling down on top of us. There’s no place for that kind of thing in Ryme City. We’ll tear it down and someone’ll replace it with glass and steel.”

“Sounds terrible, but whatever makes you happy, I guess.” Tim took another glance at the clock on his phone. _Finally_. “Anyway, you wanna settle your tab now, or at the end of the week…?”

Marty sighed. “End of the night already, huh? Alright, tell me the damage…Toxicroak! Wake up!”

Toxicroak opened his eyes one at a time and croaked, the sound emanating deep from within his bright red throat sac. Tim kept well back, eyeing him nervously. A Toxicroak had made it to the All-Region Battling Invitational a few years back, and a single nick from his poison claws had taken down an enormous Blastoise. Tim wasn’t about to mess around with poison types, no thank you.

Marty paid, eventually, rummaging through his pockets for enough bills. He slipped through the bar doors and into the night, his Toxicroak waddling along after him. Tim spritzed some CliffCure! Pokemon Antidote on the countertop where the Toxicroak had been dozing and began closing down the bar for the night. Tim put the last of the barstools up on the counter, avoiding the area where Toxicroak’s poison was still bubbling, and locked the liquor cabinet. After a moment’s thought, he went into the bar’s long-closed kitchen and took out a nearly-empty container of bologna. He walked into the empty street, wondering idly what kind of takeout would be waiting at home for him; Harry wasn’t much of a cook.

The conversation he’d had with Marty was still on his mind, despite his appetite. He glanced up at the building next door.

It was strange how Tim had never really noticed it before. It had been built to catch the eye, and despite the many years and indignities of city life, it still had that power. Rain had painted dark streaks into the pale stone, and holes were showing through the shingled roof. The name carved in stonework letters at the roofline had once been longer; Tim could read THE MANOR AT O—but the rest was too chipped and faded to read. The long balcony below it had probably once been a masterpiece of wrought iron; it was rusted and shadowy now. The structure of the building was still whole, though, and the intricate stonework mostly intact; it exuded an indefinable air of elegance, opulence, comfort. One of the corners of the building rose into a dainty spire topped with a flagpole, but whatever flag had once hung there was long gone.

It was too bad it was getting torn down, Tim thought, as he locked the bar door. It was a nice old building, but he supposed that no one needed it anymore.

He was startled by a muffled cry, and then a thud, like someone collapsing. It was coming from the alley that separated the bar from the hotel. Tim paused for a moment, and then, cursing himself, ran towards it.

“If you’re mugging someone in there, you should know that I know jujitsu,” he began, and then he rounded the corner. “Oh, it’s just you,” said Tim, relaxing, as the Ninetales came up to sniff at him from a wary distance.

Vulpix were plentiful in any city, rummaging through trash and occasionally flaming up some Rattata or Pidgey, but Ninetales were much rarer. They were usually champions in the show ring, or pampered family pets somewhere. Tim had read that on occasion, a wild Vulpix found a Fire Stone and managed to evolve by itself, but it was rare, and he was certain that Ryme City had long since stripped the land bare of naturally occurring Stones. This Ninetales was almost certainly someone’s lost or abandoned companion.

“Hey, I got you a snack,” said Tim, taking the bologna out of his bag. He took a slice and held it up tantalizingly. The Ninetales was still a good six feet away. “Come on, buddy…come and take it…”

He had this vague idea that if he could get her to trust him, he could bring her to Ryme City Pokemon Affairs and hopefully reunite her with her partner. That seemed like a long way away, to say the least. Even when Tim tossed the food at her feet, she waited until he was a good distance away to begin to eat.

Tonight was different, though. The Ninetales seemed bolder than she was normally, and she was giving him a considering stare. Tim tried his best to look trustworthy, but his heart was pounding fast. If he took her to Pokemon Affairs and she turned out not to have a partner anymore, could he…?

He saw the flame in her eyes only a split second before it came out of her mouth. It hit the slice in his hand dead-on. Tim yelped, dropping all of the bologna, and flailed backwards. Leisurely, the Ninetales came up to the dropped food and began to eat. Tim could swear he saw amusement in her ruby-red eyes.

“Fine,” he said, getting to his feet. “You like your food flambé, huh? That’s cool, that’s cool, we’re still friends, right?”

The Ninetales gave no sign of hearing him. She had picked up the main container of bologna and padded off into the dark alley, disappearing into the shadow of the hotel. Tim muttered under his breath and left.

* * *

Harry wasn’t home. Tim didn’t even know why he was surprised. There was a brief, apologetic note pinned to a container of Alolan food. Tim ate it slowly, but Harry still hadn’t arrived by the time he finished.

But he _was_ home by the time Tim woke up in his undersized Pikachu bed. There was a soft presence tucked into his side, small and comforting. Tim reached out, still half-asleep, and stroked Pikachu’s fur. It was electric-warm and more familiar that it had a right to be.

Tim still hadn’t worked out how much Pikachu had been aware of the time that Harry had—had lost his memory. He wondered if Pikachu had seen the entire thing happen through his own eyes while his body was moved around by Harry, or if his consciousness had simply been—elsewhere. He’d tried asking, feeling vaguely foolish, but Pikachu had only rubbed his cheek against his hand and pika’d at him softly. Pikachu couldn’t talk to him anymore. He never had, anyway.

Harry was probably sleeping off his caffeine-fueled detective-ing binge the night before, so Tim didn’t bother to check on his room. He just grabbed his backpack full of books, shoved his earbuds in, and headed straight to the apartment door.

Except that Harry was standing in the living room, a freshly brewed cup of coffee in his hand.

“Morning, kid,” he said, only a little blearily. He gave him that sad smile that was nothing like his expression in the photos Tim had of his parents. “Are you heading out?”

“Yeah,” mumbled Tim, yanking his shoes on as fast as he could. “Gotta get to campus, get that degree…”

“Well, have fun at school.”

Tim stared. Harry shifted uneasily.

“Make lots of friends?” he tried.

“Uh, thanks,” said Tim, and backed out the door.

The campus tour for Ryme University, when Tim and Harry had taken it last spring, had proclaimed it to be the finest center of higher learning in the region, with the most reputable degrees in the Pokemon sciences and a rigorous criminology program.

That was all fine and probably true, but Tim had to make it through his general requirements first, and that was hard enough. He was beginning to wonder if this whole, “get your degree and make a future for yourself” plan was really worth following up on. He could keep bartending forever, for example; that seemed a lot more productive than the empty word document he kept staring at.

Laboriously he typed, _Pokemon Folklore: An Essay by Tim Goodman_ and stopped.

“Dude, pick a topic first,” said Austin, leaning over his shoulder. “Do a ghost Pokemon or something, that’s easy.”

“All the ghost types are taken already,” grumbled Tim, glaring at the whiteboard where students were lining up to write down their topics. “There’s 54 ghost types and 80 students in this lecture, there’s obviously not enough to go around.”

“You know how many ghost types there are off the top of your head and you still can’t think of anything to write about? Okay, fine, do a creation myth.”

“The number of legendaries—“

Austin made a disgusted sound. “I give up,” he said, turning back to his laptop. “You’re on your own.” Tim craned his head to look: Austin was already a page in on his outline on Yamask.

Tim opened the web browser again, although searching for “Pokemon folklore” hadn’t yielded him anything helpful. On pure impulse, he tried “Ninetales folklore.”

He was surprised by the number of hits. A few links later, he opened his word document and typed:

_Ninetales is the evolved form of a Vulpix. In most regions, except for Alola, it is a fire-type. Although decently powerful, it does not appear often in Pokemon battles, since most trainers looking for a fire-type opt for a Charizard, Victini, or Blaziken instead._

After a moment’s thought, he deleted that last line.

_There a number of myths and legends surrounding Ninetales. One story states that nine saints died and were reincarnated into a single Ninetales. Grabbing a tail can apparently result in being cursed. In addition, Ninetales is said to be able to live for a thousand years, growing more psychically powerful over time, and control people’s minds. This myth probably comes from the fact that Vulpix and Ninetales can use a few low-level ghost- and psychic-type moves. In reality, humans train and live with Ninetales all the time without getting mind-controlled._

Tim decided that was more than enough for now. He got up and walked to the whiteboard. Next to his name, he wrote _Ninetales_.

“Good choice,” said Professor Aspen approvingly. “The thousand-year fox Pokemon. What got you interested in the topic?”

Tim stopped “all the easy topics were taken already” before it came out of his mouth. “I’ve been seeing a Ninetales outside my bar,” he said instead. “I mean, not my bar, but the bar I work at. So it was just, you know. On my mind.”

“A wild Ninetales in the city? That’s very rare.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought!” said Tim, emboldened. “I figure she’s been separated from her partner. I’ve been feeding her, I think maybe I can help her find her, uh, partner…” He faltered. Professor Aspen was already shaking his head.

“Ninetales are famously intelligent and determined,” he said. “If there’s a partner to go back to, that Ninetales would have almost certainly found them by now.”

“Oh,” said Tim, feeling deflated.

“One of my grad students actually wrote her dissertation on thousand-year Ninetales, if you’d like to see it,” said Professor Aspen. “For how widespread the stories are, genuine manifestations are surprisingly hard to verify.”

“No, I’m okay—wait. What do you mean, genuine manifestations? Isn’t the thousand-year Ninetales a myth?”

“Well, they’re normally more along the lines of four hundred years old, for one thing,” said Professor Aspen, apparently unaware of how much he was startling Tim. “It’s very rare for a Ninetales to outlive their usual lifespan. They don’t reach a thousand years without some powerful motivation driving them—usually some kind of grudge—but that sort of thing tends to make them quite annoying to the locals.”

The bell rang. Professor Aspen immediately forgot about their conversation.

“Remember, your quiz is due online this weekend!” he shouted at the departing students. “No extensions!”

Tim had more questions, but he needed to get to work, and the bus downtown left from the other side of campus. He stuffed his laptop back into his bag and ran out the door.

It was a quiet night at the bar, as usual. The bartender whose shift preceded his grabbed her bag and left as soon as she saw him, without even saying hello, and the kitchen staff had already gone home. There were a few construction workers at the table by the corner—they were part of the crew tearing down the hotel, Tim realized belatedly. Snatches of their conversation drifted to him as he busied himself behind the counter.

“…can’t believe he’s actually missing work…”

“What are we supposed to do when the crew leader stops showing up?”

“Maybe this job really is cursed.”

“Or maybe his Toxicroak finally got fed up with his bullshit and poisoned him already!”

This last was greeted with a roar of laughter and a call for another round of beers. Tim filled some glasses and hastened over to their table. Wow, everyone there had extremely macho Pokemon. Two Machamps, a Braviary, a Graveler. The table was _crowded_.

“Were you talking about Marty Fleming’s Toxicroak?” Tim asked, as he set out the beers. The Machamps liked stouts, apparently.

“You know him?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say that. He closed down the bar last night.”

“Ah, so that’s where he is,” said one of the workers, sitting next to his Machamp. “Sleeping it off.”

“Yeah, and I bet you think Branson really just stopped showing up. I’m telling you, there’s something weird going on here. This is not a normal job!”

“This again? Some equipment got stolen, probably by a pack of Zigzagoon, and you’re acting like a Gengar has a personal vendetta.”

“Well, maybe one does!”

“I sure haven’t seen any Zigzagoon around,” said another, his Braviary cooing in agreement. “Normally these old wrecks are riddled with Rattata or Pidgey, but I haven’t seen a single nest. Like something’s keeping them away.”

Tim broke the ominous silence that followed.

“So you think this Branson guy has gone missing?” he asked. “Fleming said he just didn’t show up.” A familiar feeling was building in his—ugh—jellies.

“He’s one of the best demolition guys in the business,” said the guy with the Graveler. “Good reputation. A guy like that doesn’t just stop showing up.”

“Do you think that could stop the building from coming down?” asked Tim, thinking of the beautiful façade of the old hotel.

“Nah. The guys from Sunset City came up today, and they’re alright. Everything’s set to blow, and the only thing left is to clear out the block for a day. The city’ll announce something, I guess. Thank fuck, to be honest—I don’t know if there’s a ghost-type involved or not, but I’ll be glad when this job is done. That hotel gives me the creeps.”

The group all went home soon afterwards. No one else came in, and Tim worked on his schoolwork until closing time. He fished some cheese fries out of the trash before heading outside.

The Ninetales was there in the alley, preening herself. She showed no signs of noticing that Tim was there.

“I don’t suppose you’re a thousand years old,” said Tim, setting the fries down on the ground and backing away. He didn’t want to get nearly singed again.

Ninetales yawned at him, revealing a healthy set of sharp, perfectly white teeth. Tim took the hint and went home.

Harry was there, for once, illuminated in the dark by the flickering light of the ancient television set. Tim looked at his phone. 2:20 AM, and he was watching a movie. No wonder he needed so much coffee. Harry brightened when he saw Tim.

“Hey kid,” he said, pausing the movie. “You wanna join us? It’s _The Hoennese Fearow_ ,” he added, as if that was meant to tempt him.

“Pika,” added Pikachu.

Tim smiled, dropping his pack to the floor. “Sure, for a little bit,” he said. “But black and white puts me to sleep.”

“No appreciation for the classics,” said Harry, and he and Pikachu made room for him on the couch. They watched in silence; Harry in rapt appreciation, Tim mostly just confused as to why everyone seemed obsessed with a random statue of a flying-type. There was a currently a villain with a Serperior on the screen, hissing menacingly.

“Do you think Pokemon actors stick to their lines?” said Harry drowsily, at some point.

Tim roused himself just slightly. “Pokemon can’t possibly have lines,” he said. “They just say, you know, ‘Pika, pika!’ or ‘Mudkip, Mudkip.’ You can’t write that into a script.”

“Pika!” said Pikachu, emphasizing his point.

“I agree with Pikachu,” said Harry. “Just ‘cause that’s all _we_ hear, doesn’t mean that’s what Pokemon hear. For all we know, those Pokemon on the screen are saying, you know, “Totodile, Totodile,” but what they’re really saying is “blah blah blah, this movie is boring, also the hot brunette is a spy.”

“You think the Pokemon actors are slipping spoilers to the Pokemon in the audience,” said Tim.

“Hey, how would we know, right? Damn, of all the things to forget to be curious about when I could understand Pokemon. Pikachu, you would tell me, right? Right?”

“Pikachu,” said Pikachu affectionately, and promptly fell asleep in a circle on Harry’s lap. Tim looked straight ahead, trying not to be jealous of their easy, familiar bond. He left for bed not long after, leaving his dad stroking Pikachu in his lap.

The next morning, he woke up, way too early, to the sounds of someone trying to put on his pants and drink coffee and text at the same time. It might have seemed like a strangely specific sound, but it really wasn’t in the Goodman household. There were more coffee sounds, and then the front door opening and slamming shut. Tim groaned and checked his phone. Way too early, especially for someone whose shift ended at 2am.

There was a message from Harry on his phone. It read: _g2g sry urgnet call takeout in frdg must run c u later feraligatr_

Tim sighed. Why did dads universally text like this?

He lay in bed for a while, trying to get back to sleep, but it was a losing proposition. He might as well make himself some coffee and get caught up on schoolwork. He slouched into the living room, where the coffee maker was still half full. He filled up his mug and sat in front of the television, thinking he’d put on the gardening channel for background noise. Instead there was a news alert.

_“…and they are struggling to move it. Authorities are asking any citizens with strong psychic or poison types to come forward. Again, a Toxicroak has been found unconscious on the steps of the old Manor Hotel in the Oakton neighborhood. Its poison skin ability has reportedly already sent two officers and their Pokemon to the hospital, so they are looking for strong psychic or poison types to assist in moving it to a safe place where it can receive treatment.”_

_“Thank you, Cindy. You know, this is more proof that abandoned buildings like the Manor Hotel attract the criminal element in Ryme City. We should all be glad that old buildings like this one are getting torn down, to prevent Pokemon like this Toxicroak from falling in with the wrong crowd—”_

Tim didn’t need to hear the rest. He immediately ran to his room and wrestled himself into his pants, chugging the rest of his coffee as he did. He sent a brief text to Harry and ran out the door.

At the Manor Hotel, he was met with crime scene tape and a whole bunch of interested onlookers. The Toxicroak still lay limp on the top of the hotel steps; a few men in bulky Hazmat suits were maneuvering awkwardly around him. Harry met him at the boundary and ushered him through.

“How’d you know that this was the crime scene I was called to this morning?” he asked.

This made Tim stop and think. “Instinct, I guess.”

Harry smiled. “Your jellies,” he said proudly. “You got those from me.”

“Please, not this again.”

“So c;mon, kid, tell me what you got. Goodman and Goodman, together again! Sounds good, doesn’t it? Of course, my name goes first.”

“We have the same—forget it. Anyway, I know that Toxicroak. I recognized it on the news. He’s partners with a guy called Marty Fleming.”

“Alright, so we’ll have to see if _he_ knows how you move an unconscious Toxicroak—”

“Marty Fleming is missing.”

Harry turned to him, a way-too-excited gleam in his eye. “Ah, so finally it gets interesting. And how are you involved in all this?”

“Fleming was drinking at the bar I work at—”

Tim winced and stopped himself, too late.

“You work at a _bar_?”

“It’s not dangerous!”

“You told me you were working at a coffeeshop! I approved of that!”

“What kind of coffeeshop closes at 2AM?”

“The good kind!”

“Forget it, Harry,” Tim snapped, and crossed his arms. Why did he feel like a teenager? He’d never felt like a teenager even back when he _was_ a teenager. Harry threw up his hands.

“Okay, sure. Forget it. Let’s just focus on the important thing. Tell me about Fleming.”

Right. The important thing.

“Two nights ago, he was at my bar, complaining that his demolition expert hadn’t shown up. Some guy named Branson. Yesterday, we got some customers coming in that said they were part of Fleming’s work crew, and that _he_ hadn’t shown up either. Both Fleming and his crew said that equipment kept going missing, and that things kept going wrong at the hotel. And now Fleming’s Toxicroak ends up dumped on the hotel steps. There’s something fishy going on, right?”

“Sure sounds like it,” said Harry thoughtfully. “This Fleming guy. What was he like? Was he drinking?”

“Well, that’s the purpose of a bar, so yeah.”

“Okay, wise guy. I’ll send out units to check on Marty Fleming and this Branson guy—you got a full name for him?”

Tim didn’t, but the construction crew was still around. They had found the Toxicroak that morning, and the two hours since had given them plenty of time to stew. They gave the full names and addresses of the missing men willingly, and then one, with a Gurdurr, squared his jaw and stepped forward.

"Tell us straight, detective: are we cursed? Do we need to get a ghost-type specialist out here?"

"Listen, we don't even know for sure what happened to that Toxicroak yet," said Harry placatingly. "Why don't you guys go home, we'll call you if something happens."

Neither the man nor his Gurdurr moved. "Marty's Toxicroak was powerful," he said. “He could take any one of our Pokemon out. Something that could knock him out cold is something none of us want to mess with. No job is worth that.”

“ _No job_ is exactly what you’ll end up with if this project doesn’t get finished on schedule,” said a voice behind them. Tim whirled around to see Roger Clifford, whipping his sunglasses off furiously. “And I thought Fleming was useless. He and his Pokemon are obviously just dead-drunk. Get that frog off my building and blow it to pieces already!”

“You own this building?” Tim asked in disbelief.

“Of course he does,” said Harry. “He owns everything. Listen, this is an active investigation. Nothing’s getting blown up until we clear up where Fleming and Branson are.”

“The only thing I have to do to close this _active investigation_ is to call your chief,” sneered Clifford. He turned to the man with the Gurdurr. “You there! Is this building ready for demolition or not?”

He shuffled uneasily.

“Technically, yes, but—”

“Then it’s decided, isn’t it?”

“Look,” said Tim, losing his patience. “I get you want to open another office building or whatever, but you can’t deny there’s something weird going on here. That Toxicroak wasn’t placed here by accident. It’s a message, and it’s directed at _you_.”

Clifford only looked at him. “And who the hell are you?”

Tim stared back, flabbergasted.

“Dude, I saved your life last year from your crazy dad? Ringing any bells?”

“I vaguely remember a skinny teenager struggling to subdue a pink blob,” said Clifford. “Not that it has anything to do with my business with the hotel. In fact I—”

His head turned, a look of intense concentration coming over his face. He was staring at the hotel doors.

“Open those doors,” he said sharply. The workers, still hanging around hesitantly, all backed away.

“We can’t,” said one bluntly. “We blocked it off from the inside to keep civilians from getting in—we’ve been using the side door in the alley—“

“Oh, forget it,” snapped Clifford. “I’ll do it myself.”

He strode furiously through the people milling in Hazmat suits, past the unconscious Toxicroak, and stood in front of the ornately carved doors.

“What the hell does he think he’s doing,” muttered one of the workers, “Our Machamps couldn’t force open those doors—”

He stopped abruptly. Clifford took hold of one of the doors and pushed it open easily. Beyond it was nothing but swirling darkness.

“Okay, that’s no good,” said Harry resignedly, and ran up the stairs. Tim hurried behind him.

“I should have known,” said Clifford, apparently to thin air. “Father, I insist that you stop playing these absurd games—what did you say? How dare you—“ He stalked forward, his foot crossing just across the hotel threshold.

Something happened then. Tim didn’t know how to describe it. It was as if Roger Clifford was a fish on one end of a monstrously long line. He fell backwards, his feet dragged forward from under him by an invisible force.

“What the—help! Help me!”

Clifford reached out frantically for the door. Harry lunged forward, too late. Whatever was on the other end of the line reeled him in with shocking swiftness. Clifford was gone, still screaming, into the dark. Harry ran into the darkness after him without a moment’s hesitation. Tim was swept in Harry’s wake before he could think about it; _he_ would have preferred to hesitate. Hesitating was his superpower. He especially regretted it a moment later, when the doors of the Manor Hotel slammed shut behind them.

* * *

“Great,” said Tim bitterly, inspecting the foyer by the light of his cellphone. “I’m so glad we got trapped here to save an asshole who doesn’t even remember our names.”

“Pikachu,” said Pikachu reprovingly.

“Pikachu’s right,” said Harry. “He’s not just some asshole, he’s a _rich_ asshole. This time I’m holding out for a new car. Anyway, it looks like he got dragged this direction, come on.”

Harry took the lead, because he had a real flashlight. In its glow they could clearly see drag marks through the dust, leading across the marble floor and down a columned hallway. Tim swung his phone from side to side, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The columns were the same rich, veiny marble as the floor, the walls lined with classically drawn murals of ancient Pokemon. Here and there were ragged remnants of what must have been a plush carpet, and above them—Tim staggered into his dad, trying to see above them. The ceiling must have been at least twenty, thirty feet high—his cellphone light didn’t reach that far.

“Hey, if this flashlight breaks, that’s it for us,” warned Harry. “Be careful.”

“Sorry, just—what kind of place is this? I’ve only seen a hotel like this in your old movies.”

“Old, isn’t it?” Harry swept the flashlight from side to side. “They sure don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”

“Yeah, but how old? Wasn’t Ryme City only founded, like, forty years ago?”

“Ah, but you see, Ryme City is actually a lot older than Ryme City.”

“Explain that one again, maybe.”

“Well, it’s not like you can just make a city out of nothing. Ryme City was the Clifford Industries company town for decades beforehand. You know, your standard wage slavery bed-and-backbreaking labor sorta deal. Then Clifford Industries started getting really big, and the town kept getting bigger, and you had to make more towns for the company execs to live in, yadda yadda yadda, it kept growing, and growing, and eventually the whole thing starts eating towns that had nothing to do with Clifford Industries to begin with, until finally good ole Howard Clifford decides to make it official and call it a city. Throw in some urban decay and that’s where we’re at now; some parts of Ryme City are from towns that were centuries old, and some parts are brand spanking new.”

“This hotel has to be at least a century old,” said Tim.

“More like a century abandoned,” said Harry. “I’m amazed it’s still standing at all.”

The trail in the dust led them deeper into the recesses of the hotel. The work crew had evidentially never gone in so far—or at least, all evidence of their work was gone without a trace. It was very quiet here. The dust muffled their footfalls, and the hotel did not provide other sounds. The silence that fell when they weren’t talking was as deep as a well.

“If the building’s this old, there’s gotta be a good chance we’re dealing with a ghost-type after all.”

Harry snorted. “Spooky old building, people vanishing mysteriously—it seems to fit the criteria. You’re the expert—how do we deal with a ghost-type?”

“Um—I guess we battle it?”

“Pika!”

“Oh come on, you can handle it,” said Harry. “Remember that Charizard?”

“Pika pika pika!”

“Yeah, that’s the spirit,” said Harry blithely. Pikachu flicked his tail in annoyance and hopped to Tim’s shoulder instead, still chittering at Harry passionately. His weight on Tim’s shoulder felt—weird. Tim resisted the urge to push him off.

And he was wondering himself if they’d be able take a ghost-type in battle. They were tricky to fight, and they would be on its home turf, and they only had one Pokemon with them. It was a reminder that Tim didn’t need, that he didn’t have a partner. And what could the ghost even want?

Pikachu and Harry were still arguing.

“Pika, pikachu! Pika pika—”

“Yeah, buddy, I hear ya—”

“Stop!” Tim snapped, startling them both. Harry turned to look at him, wide-eyed. “Just stop! Stop acting like you can understand him! You can’t. Pokemon and humans can’t understand each other. Full stop.”

He doubled his pace, charging ahead. Too late he realized that Harry hadn’t moved with him; he came to a stop, feeling incredibly foolish, at the end of the flashlight beam.

“Kid,” said Harry, after a moment. “I know. I’m sorry. Pikachu and I just like to goof around.” He approached slowly. “But, I don’t know, I’m kinda getting a sense that you’re really mad about something else.”

“I’m not mad,” said Tim immediately. “Why would I be mad?”

In the strangely-angled light of the flashlight, Harry looked incredibly sheepish.

“I know I’m not so great at this entire ‘father’ thing, but you seemed pretty mad. If there’s another word for it, you have to tell me.”

Tim looked at his face. For a long time, Tim had only seen his dad’s face in the wedding photos his grandma had kept—Mom in a yellow sundress, holding daisies, Harry in a seriously retro suit he had borrowed from his uncle. Those pictures had been taken twenty years ago, but it kept surprising him to see the lines on his dad’s face, and the lingering sadness in his expression. Tim averted his eyes.

“It’s just that we never talked about it,” he said. “You know, when you were…not yourself.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Right.”

A silence fell between them.

“We don’t have to talk about it, actually,” said Tim hurriedly, just as Harry said,

“Let’s talk about it now, then.”

They paused.

“Now?” said Tim. “Here? In front of the ghosts?”

Harry looked earnestly at him.

“Don’t you want to? I thought this was what you wanted.”

“It’s just—” Tim felt incredibly foolish. “It was a lot easier to talk when you were Pikachu,” he admitted.

Setting the flashlight down, Harry unceremoniously grabbed Pikachu around the middle, ignoring his alarmed squeak, and held him in front of his face.

“Is this better, kid?” he asked.

“Not really…”

“Pika,” said Pikachu, disgruntled.

“I’m trying to bond with my son, okay? Listen,” he said, wagging Pikachu slightly in the air. Tim could see Harry’s hair sticking up between Pikachu’s ears as Pikachu began to wriggle vigorously. “I just want to say, no matter what happens, I’m your dad. I’m always gonna be here for you, and try to have you back, and I know I haven’t been the best dad in the past, but—ow! Pikachu!”

Pikachu landed on the floor, visibly annoyed, and ran off just outside the circle of light. Harry sucked on his finger where he had been zapped.

“I was just getting to the good part,” he said.

“Serves you right,” said Tim, but his chest felt inexplicably lighter. He picked up the flashlight to illuminate a scowling Pikachu, and right behind him—

Tim definitely didn’t scream like a girl. He screamed like a man, and dropped the flashlight.

“Kid, it’s a painting,” said Harry, catching the flashlight in midair. “You see how it’s not moving?”

“Look, I saw a face suddenly appear in a haunted hotel,” said Tim. “I think that merits being slightly, just slightly, surprised.”

“Got it, so that was a scream of slight surprise, then,” said Harry, and shone the flashlight on the painting again. “Hate to see what you do when you’re scared.”

“At least I don’t get zapped on the daily—” Tim trailed off abruptly as he saw the painting more closely. Everything in the hotel was covered in the dust and dirt of a century, but this was immaculate. The ornate gilt frame still glittered in the light, and the painting, although it had darkened with age, was free of dust. The subject was clear. A man in an old-fashioned smoking blazer lounged in a winged armchair. His hair was black, his beard white; his golden pocket watch, heavy rings, and the stack of leather-bound books on his side table spoke of wealth and power. At his side was a sleekly maintained Ninetales, looking at him with adoring eyes. Tim couldn’t tear his own eyes away from her. The light that shone on the painting seemed to be growing stronger.

“Oh, no,” said Tim, feeling numb. “It’s not a ghost-type at all.”

“Kid, what are you talking about?” laughed Harry, behind him. “You’re not still talking about Pokemon battles, are you? We’re at a party!”

Tim spun around. A set of double doors hung open, throwing golden light into the hallway. In the ballroom beyond, men and women in clothing he had seen only in old movies drank and danced. He could hear their laughter and conversation, an indistinct murmur punctuated by clinking glasses. And in the entryway were his parents, dressed as they had been at their wedding.

His mother’s hand rested lightly on her flat stomach, and she smiled radiantly at her husband. Harry gazed down at her with an expression that Tim had never seen on him in person.

“And you’re both late,” she teased. “I thought you were going to stand me up.”

“And miss my opportunity to dance with the most beautiful woman in Ryme City?” asked Harry, twirling her around right there in the entryway. Mom laughed—Tim had forgotten what it felt like, when Mom laughed. He stood there, paralyzed, as they ran into the ballroom hand-in-hand, like teenagers.

“Dad!” shouted Tim, finding his voice. “Dad, please…”

He felt a nudge at his knee, and looked down. Pikachu looked up at him, fear plainly visible in his eyes. Tim knelt down and picked him up. His parents were already lost from view.

“Dad!” he shouted again. He charged into the milling, laughing crowd. He heard snippets of conversation as he raced past women in silk dresses and men in tailcoats.

“…One last hurrah before he goes overseas…”

“Isn’t the voyage awfully dangerous this time of year?”

“Don’t be absurd, these ships now are practically unsinkable—”

A waiter stepped into his path. Tim pushed him aside, but he needn’t have bothered; his hands went right through.

“Dad!” he shouted. “Dad, stop! Listen to me, it’s not real!”

“Pikachu! Pikachu!”

Dancers swarmed around him, whirling on the checkerboard dance floor. His parents were nowhere in sight. Tim sagged to the ground.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” asked a voice. Tim looked up.

A man stood above him, a Ninetales by his side. His stance suggested power, confidence; his hair was black, his beard white. It was the portrait, brought to life.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked again. Tim ignored him. He looked directly at the Ninetales.

“Please stop this,” he said. “Let all of us go.”

The man looked thoughtfully at him.

“I can’t do that,” he said. “If I let you go, your city would demolish this place, which is the last thing I have of my master. Look around you, Tim Goodman. This night is the last night my master was with me, and I will continue to preserve this memory.”

“Would your master have wanted you to sacrifice other people’s lives just to keep his building in one piece?” demanded Tim.

A smile flickered over the man’s face.

“I believe he would have,” said the man. “He was not merciful in life. But it hardly matters. It is what _I_ want. I am sorry, for whatever that is worth; but I have not waited for this century of life for my master to return only to see his works destroyed.”

“But he’s never coming back!” said Tim. “You know he’s never coming back. You have to let the dead go.”

Ninetales looked at him.

“The others fell into my hypnoses so easily,” said the man. “But you will not surrender quietly, will you? Perhaps I must deal with you more effectively—”

A wave of lightning filled Tim’s vision. He flinched back, closing his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, the Ninetales had flown to the other side of the ballroom, her fur singed slightly, and the sharp sting of ozone filled his nostrils. The room full of golden light and laughing people were gone. The man—Ninetales’ master—was gone. The chandeliers were once more broken heaps on the floor. It was completely dark except for the beam of the flashlight; Tim swung it frantically from side to side.

The room wasn’t completely empty. In the gloom he could see Marty Fleming, who had apparently been in the middle of dancing, turn and look around him with confusion. Clifford had been in a heated argument with someone. A third man must have been Branson: he was in the process of lifting a dried out leaf to his mouth as if it were a canapé. And there, too, was Harry. He was on his knees on the floor, his face buried in his hands. He was shaking.

“Dad?” said Tim. He was shaking too, with nerves and adrenaline. “Dad, are you alright?”

Harry’s head lifted and turned directly for him.

“You have been very foolish,” said Harry.

Tim stopped dead.

“What’s happening,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Pikachu’s grip on his shoulder told him that he wasn’t alone in his fear. “Dad?”

“You dare to tell me to let go of the dead?” said Harry. “You ought to have saved your wisdom for your father. You know that he cannot let go of your mother. His longing for her would not even allow him to stay in your life. You can forgive him for that, but you cannot forgive me?” Harry managed to put one hand over his mouth, but the other hand calmly lifted it away. “I have seen this man’s mind. How he longs for the connection that you severed. He dreams of the home he had before death broke it apart. His dead wife, his estranged son, his unhappy home. _He_ cannot reverse these things. But I can. I wish only to keep my home, safe from the ruins of time. In this perfect shell of memory, I can be happy. I can keep _him_ alive.”

Ninetales walked forward into the light, swishing her tails. Tim looked into her red eyes, and saw a century of suffering.

“Please, Ninetales,” said Tim shakily. “Let my dad go. Maybe—maybe he can help keep the hotel standing for a while longer. He can help you—”

“No one can help me.”

“Yes, we can!” shouted Tim. “You have to accept help. Look, your master left, okay! Maybe he died, maybe he abandoned you, maybe he tried to get back to you and couldn’t. But you can’t keep waiting all your life. You’ve locked yourself into a cage and now you won’t let anyone destroy it! When—when my dad left, I was angry. I was hurt. I wanted to burn the world down, but instead I just stayed in my small town, and made myself smaller to fit it.”

Tim was trying hard not to look at Harry. He kept his eyes fixed on the Ninetales. Those ruby eyes were hard to decipher.

“But you did find him,” said Harry finally. Tim turned to look at him.

“Yeah, I did,” said Tim. “But it wasn’t by waiting forever. It was only by moving forward.” He swallowed. “There’s no other choice, in life. You have to let things go. Including the ones that you love. That’s the only way they come back to you.”

For a moment nothing happened. And then Harry gasped for breath, landing with a thump onto the floor. He looked at his hands as if unsure if they were still really his or not. Fleming and Branson looked around them in bewilderment. Tim ran to his father, wrapping his arms around him tightly. When he pulled back, Ninetales was nowhere to be found.

* * *

Harry and Tim watched the hotel go down from a safe distance. It had been a week since they had rescued the three men from the Manor Hotel, and Ninetales still was nowhere in sight.

Getting back out of the hotel had been uneventful. The heavy doors at the entrance, which had refused to move earlier, had opened at the slightest pull. Harry had helped push the three men into daylight, but Tim had stayed behind for a moment. He had felt a presence tailing him as they left. He spoke to the darkness.

“Come with us,” said Tim. “You don’t have to stay and be destroyed with the past. You can—you can come with me, if you want. Or anyone else,” he added hurriedly. “But I just…thought I would offer.”

No response from the darkness. Tim had to go.

He had hoped to see her in the alley where he had once fed her, but she was truly gone. The hotel was destroyed, and Ninetales had chosen to be destroyed with it. Tim turned for home without a word, and Harry went with him.

“So, kid,” said Harry.

“Dad,” said Tim, trying it out.

“Meant all that you said back there?”

Tim kicked a rock. It was the first time they had talked about the hotel since they had left it. “Most of it.”

Harry was silent a moment, sticking his hands deep within his pockets.

“I couldn’t stay,” he said. “Not even for you. When your mom died…I was like a wild animal. I had to get out of that town, that life. I was willing to chew my own leg off to get away. But I didn’t realize exactly what I was giving up until you refused to follow me there. If I’d known that I’d lose your entire childhood, I—I would have chosen differently.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Tim, surprising himself. “If you hadn’t gone to Ryme City, we couldn’t be where we are now.”

His dad’s smile looked exactly like the ones in Tim’s old photographs.

“Good. Great. I just—I just want to say. Don’t be too hard on yourself. I know exactly what that Ninetales felt. You couldn’t have saved her.”

Tim let out a sigh.

“I guess. It’s just hard to accept.”

“If it makes you feel better, she definitely didn’t feel bad for taking my body out for a joyride.”

They were approaching their apartment now.

“I just thought she deserved a second chance,” said Tim. “But I guess she didn’t want one.”

Harry’s expression was sad. “Sometimes it takes a long time to realize that you deserve one,” he said. “Come on, movie night?” he asked, as he swung the door open.

“Okay, but I want to see a modern movie this time—”

“Tim, get a move on, you’re blocking the door—oh.”

For a moment they both stared. A Ninetales, elegant and sleek, was stretched out sleeping on the living room couch. She raised her narrow head as they entered, and regarded them.

“Dad…?” whispered Tim. “What—what is happening right now.”

“I think this is how you get a Pokemon partner,” said Harry, giddy. “Nice catch, Tim.”

“Oh,” said Tim.

“Um, hi!” said Harry. “I bet you remember me, you jumped in my skin and rummaged around in my head like it was a yard sale? So uh, my name’s Harry, I guess.” He cleared his throat. “You like movies?”

* * *

“Hey,” said Harry. “Psst. Ninetales. Can you tell me what those Pokemon actors are saying? I’ll let you possess me as long as you tell me.”

Ninetales merely opened one eye and shut it again, somehow conveying utter disdain by the way she resettled her head on her paws.

“Pikachu,” said Pikachu.

“Yeah, I know you’d tell me if you could,” said Harry grumpily. “Thanks, buddy.”

He sighed, but not too loudly. Ninetales was clearly trying to sleep, and on his other side, Tim had fallen asleep with his head on Harry’s shoulder, as he hadn’t done since he was a child. He put his arm around his son, and a hand tentatively on Ninetales’ head. Ninetales twitched an ear, but didn’t otherwise object.

They were a family again.


End file.
